Attack and Recover

There is this mode of therapy in psychiatry called Desensitisation. And unlike a lot of terms in psychiatry, it actually means what a layman might assume.

A person walks in with a diagnosed phobia. You expose them to a small dose of the entity that provokes this "irrational fear". Give them time and space to recover. They return. Rinse and repeat.

Thing is, these doses start out small, but increase progressively. Much like with vaccines, you help this person to slowly build up a response that soon kicks in instinctively. Bigger the threat, bigger the response. Ready for The Forbidden Forest, immune to Aragog.

Attack and recover. Attack and recover.

There's an alternative. Flash desensitisation. Just in and out. A huge dose of stimulus, almost stunning the mind into a sub-habitual response. And then that becomes the learnt response.

Attack and recover and stop. Fingers crossed.

Would you like a consistently low baseline mood, with no significant peaks of happiness and no significant troughs of misery either? Sounds like a fair deal, not having to cope with massive setbacks. Things will never get too rough. And if you've never been too happy, you never know what you're missing out on.

No attacks. No recovery.

Or would you like a state of wilder highs and lows? Intense sorrows to match intense joy, but with a markedly higher baseline mood. It sounds like the definition of living a little, but it could just as well be a recipe for torture to the soul. To have to take the shitstorm in your stride because hey, secondary rainbows every summer.

Attack and recover and rise.

. . .

Seems to me that it's often a progression through the four stages, in that very order.

You take the small hits, you cope. You suffer a big blow, you pause and regroup. Maybe you wall off all future blows; now there's no need to cope. Then one fine day, you step back into the ring - you take a punch, you throw two back, and you give meaning to the process. You rise.

.

There's agony in watching someone pass through the stages, even knowing that it will pass. Watching them allow others to drag them through the stages. Ain't nobody mess with ma homies and their mommas, that kind of agony.

Worse when the others play the victim card to a hungry audience that laps up drama but is impervious to dignity. If only you could card the victim at the door for legit being juvenile; too immature to enter the real world, byebye now.

Feel like an angry warrior on behalf of your homies. Not that they ask it, but because it infuriates you to watch the self-proclaimed victims vilify without a break. Where is all the decency to which they feel so entitled?

Attack and attack and attack. Recovery must wait.

"How Are You Doing Today?"

The other day, I heard about this young male journalist who works in Vidarbha. His mother told me. She's in town; her kidneys are in protest mode.

A couple of farms a few districts away are low on men this month. One of the MIA farmers is 25. Some valves in his heart need attention.

One go-to kirana store in a Nanded neighbourhood is unmanned these days. The owner can undergo necessary surgery only half a state away.

Almost everyday now, we make our way through wards full of occupied beds. Males, females. Ages 12 and above.

Youngsters, and then some who could be their grandparents. Parents who have long avoided hospitalisation because their kids would then be alone at home, without help. Middle aged men and middle aged women, with their middle aged siblings and relatives in attendance. There are teenagers, unmindful of the gravity of their stay at the hospital; their parents stand by and overcompensate.

The entire spectrum of backgrounds, moods, conditions, support and coping mechanisms, brought together on a floor partitioned a few times over.

Man hours slip by without hesitation, and daily wagers, with their implicit faith in our badgeless white aprons, ask how soon they can return to work.

Human lives, all with their own intricately detailed stories, surround us in those wards. And all we're equipped to do right now is record patients' histories. Onset, progression, duration. Aggravating factors. Relieving factors.

To talk, in a clear, friendly and systematic manner. Work out a provisional diagnosis. Tell yourself that you're quite the stud. Rinse and repeat.

The human angle kicks you in the face when you walk past a patient later that day, or the following day, no longer in need of their account of their illness.

When you choose to slow down to nod, to smile, to ask how they're doing. To ask if they've eaten, if the doctor has been to see them today. To ask that ailing teenager's mother if he has been troubling her too much.

And out of nowhere, with a gesture as small and commonplace as that, you watch as eyes light up - you discover that it's not just a figure of speech. Smiles split open resting faces, even faces of those who launch into a series of complaints right after. A cheeky grin sometimes puts in an appearance and you're struck by how right and happy it looks.

Who would believe this person has a file full of grim reports?

You grin back. Figure you're probably at the happiest bed in the ward. Then grin a little more because, well, you had something to do with it and modesty must not come in the way of wide grins.

Continue on your way, feeling like a total stud. Acknowledge that the patients and their relatives are studlier still, for giving you that moment.

Why, you'll be invincible once you can truly fix the cause behind patients' complaints. 

Invincible and intolerable.

I Speak For 'Uncle-Aunty'

Of late, amongst other interesting [possibly more surprising, and admittedly more discussion-worthy] things, I've taken to strolling through Quora. Fun place, because you don't feel like you're barging in on people unexpectedly, but you still get in on often-great responses to sometimes-great queries about this or that or that or that. Or that. Or even that. There's everything left to be learnt, yessir.

One such stroll led me to a question that amused me at first - How should parents ask their children's friends to address them, and for what reasons? I said I was strolling, quit judging.

As I read the answers posted [you can read them here, sign up/in because it'll be worth it], I couldn't help but feel like the West has been missing the point altogether. Why do you want a special name for yourself anyway? Why can't that kid's name for you be mass produced and in common with all his peers, just like his breakfast and his innerwear? Are you more special to that kid than his breakfast or innerwear? Okay, touchy topic. 

Still, the question prompted a quick checklist of why India's 'Uncle/Aunty' tradition gets my enthusiastic vote. I quite like that this list of benefits isn't restricted to friend's parents.. we're inclusive like that! Obviously, not all points apply to every Uncle/Aunty I've ever spoken with. So if you're one, do try and look at the brighter side of points.. even if points are supposed to be zero dimensional. 

Since this is the closest you may ever get to a rational, public dissection of a rare moment of national pride, be sure to think about it after you switch tabs.

• At the very least, I see the 'Uncle/Aunty' system as acknowledging that the said adult is older than I, period.
  
  I don't have to respect a person in order to respect their age and the experience [whether superior or misguided] that comes with it. Nor do I need to bother with a silly speculation about relative worth and dignity and whatnot to call someone Uncle and not Mahesh or Mr Mahesh. I'm just acknowledging the age difference, nice and simple. 

• I don't have to know you to call you Aunty! That makes things civil more often than not. Doesn't mean you're my favourite.
  You could be that sweaty, smelly, whiny lady on the train - especially the one with all that hair left open for me to nuzzle - who insists on sharing the sorrows of a stubbed toe from Vashi to Kurla, throughout realigning her hip against mine and digging her inconsiderately designed, boxy, brass-studded purse into my ribs. I might want to growl at you and stamp all your toes and donate a hairclip or two while I'm at it, but I will still call you Aunty when I ask you to move a wee bit away from my crotch. I RESPECT YOUR AGE, ANONYMOUS AUNTY. I also don't like you very much.

• Continuing from the lack of like involved, this system simply isn't dependent on how close you are to that [older] adult.
  If you're close and/or both want a different, special name or if your equation changes in some way that warrants a new term, the path to redressal is clear. If not, no harm done!  Since all our languages provide a host of names for older male and female relatives, it's not like 'Uncle/Aunty' have any special or familiar overtones. So my parents' closest friends that I may or may not be close with, my favouritest neighbour from when I was a kid, my boyfriend's mother, the security staff or cashier at a mall, the stranger walking ahead of me and that evil lady on the train can all be my Aunties. And no one finds this offensive! They might if they give this universality some thought, but at least until I pointed it out, no one minded.

• Along with ^, it also absolves you of the need to know the adult's first name.
  
  For those of us used to the UAT [cool cultural feature merits an acronym, no?], I think that's actually a fairly unlikely thing for to know, the first name of your friend's parent. I can always refer to them as "X's mom" should the need arise. It's also very convenient during introductions, moments of forgetfulness and evaluations of occupied memory space in one's mind.

• Loses the stiff formality of Mr/Mrs, but retains some measure of distance anyway.
  
  That way your friends won't wind up with a complex about your equation with their parents. Tell me how that's undesirable.

• Usable regardless of the language you are speaking!
  
  As in case of other English words [think "hello/okay/bye/side please/thenks"], these terms have percolated across languages and are understood and accepted by many-to-most even in rural India. I've actually had someone insist that "okay" is a Telugu word, so you'll just have to trust me on this percolation theory.
• Once it catches on, it can provide inspiration for popular dialogues, weirdly catchy songs, even the odd search history preference.
  
  Deny any of it and you would be labelled low on creativity, and woefully ignorant of your own culture.

Blindness & Bombay

I was born and brought up in Bombay. I now live in Mumbai.

They used to tell me changing Bombay to Mumbai would change things. That I would feel the difference.

But when I walk past the park in the evening, the children are as noisy as before. They still run around me, laughing and calling out to each other. Sometimes they stumble, crying foul and complaining earnestly. At other times, they form the perfect background score while I sit down cross-legged, spread my fingers in the damp grass and take in the sounds and the fresh air. My city calls out to me.

People waiting for buses and trains are the same as always. Some push and shove, intent on moving ahead. Some seek their physical space, giving me mine in the process. But they still talk about the same old things. And they swarm together in the same old way, such that conversations and contours merge. That familiar buzz spreads through the crowd when a fast train approaches, there's a sudden patter of feet pounding onto the floorboard as the train slows to a stop. The wind lashes my face when I stand close to the door and concerned arms still reach out to protect me. My city calls out to me.

When I walk through the by-lanes of crowded markets, men call out to me to buy their wares. Dogs scurry by, sometimes resting against my leg, waiting to be entertained. I listen as customers bargain hard and shopkeepers do what they can to dissuade them. The smells and sounds of my city combine to form a feeling that is comforting, yet chaotic; but remove one element and the chaos fades away. The comfort ebbs. I walk through these by-lanes because this is my home. My city calls out to me.

               

I often take visitors for a tour of tourist sites in the city; does that surprise you?  It's too bad people think the seafront is a cliché to be avoided. I think it is a gift to be shared. I smile as tentative steps into the water soon translate to excited chatter and childish games. The sound of the waves as they collapse against each other.  A faint whiff of the sea on my clothes. The lingering taste of seawater. My city calls out to me.

Get on a bus heading out of the city. It’s easy enough; people will help you. Sometimes they play songs you've never heard before. Sometimes they keep up a constant chatter and sometimes, they snore noisily. But turn your face to the breeze outside and you'll realise they're still nice people. Give it a couple of hours and you will have reached the ghats. You will hear the water rushing down the slopes long before you can reach out to feel it. Go ahead and get to a hilltop, there are so many to choose from. You will be surprised by the crisp air, the lush spreads of soft grass. Even the midday sun will feel like a pleasant greeting. The pressure of the breeze will envelope you, comfort you; it will tell you you were meant to be here. It's what I experience every time. And from a distance, from far beyond valleys and postal codes, my city calls out to me.

And you see, I tell the breeze I come from Mumbai. I tell the children that is where I live; I help my guests set out for Mumbai Darshan. It’s Mumbai, no longer Bombay. But that has changed nothing. Who’s to decide what’s more beautiful than another, more perfect than another? 

They used to tell me changing Bombay to Mumbai would change things. That I would feel the difference.

I still fill in six letters when asked to provide my address.

I fail to see the difference.

Not Poetry, Not Prose

It's not like I'm traumatised about my last post but it is weighing on my mind. Perhaps because normally, men say/pretend it was an accident. They either brush past you and get lost in the crowd asap or mutter an apology as they're compelled to walk past. When you glare back or hit, hurl an abuse or snap at them to hold their elbows in, they comply and look away duly chastised. Sometimes people around you join in in giving the man nasty vibes. Big help. But we're just so used to being felt up or brushed against. The next time you see a woman turn around looking disgusted, disgruntled but not too shocked, you know what could have caused it. 


In contrast, what I wrote about was just so overt. Not even a facade about it being an accident. He moved in with an intention, he ran away to avoid the consequences. Such a conscious act. I think that's what shook me up more than anything.

It would be very cliched to talk about being scarred, mentally or otherwise. But scars are demeaning. Ugly leftovers from ugly times. They hang around even if you're "over it" and they almost always evoke a reaction from you. I suppose it would approach high prose if I was to talk about how they remind me of goats being branded before the kill. Shall avoid.

But indulge me here for a while. Picture it for yourself. You were unable to see his face, it was turned away for the entire duration of your chance encounter. He could walk past you on the street tomorrow and you may not be able to identify him. He could be the guy standing behind you in the line at the ATM, or one of two people you share an auto with tomorrow morning. You still wouldn't know. I don't know.

I don't get how this works. I'm not sure I want to figure it out. Would that evening go down in his mental record as just one of many such incidents? Was that his idea of scoring? How does the bugger sleep at night and look his mother in the eye? How long until I stop wondering if I ran as best as I could? Am I ever going to stop picturing myself walking down a road with restless eyes and a sharp not-quite-a-stone-but-not-quite-a-rock in each hand? I detest how I now walk around with a grim expression and a tense jaw. I feel like I'm not being true to myself, but right now, that's what feels right. Convenient.


Most of all, I hate how I stiffen up every time someone walks by too close. It doesn't matter whether it's a male or a female, how they're dressed or what they look like. Be it at the rickshaw stand or on a railway platform or right outside college. My default mode involves being stiff and glaring at the world, a part of my mind devoted to considering how I'd block the guy closest to me should he decide to swoop in. Do I sound like a paranoid fool who's overreacting? Chances are that's how your mom and sister feel. Have a chat. See where your sympathies lie the next time a man around you is being abused and you're not sure if he really did anything, if it was a big deal. "Arre at most he only touched her na." Who gets the benefit of doubt here?


It's too convenient, telling the female that she was asking for it. That she should have double thought the time of the day, the way she was dressed. She should have know that's what the neighbourhood is like. That she shouldn't be laughing aloud while she walks, she shouldn't draw attention. You tell her how to keep herself hidden away. How to be inconspicuous. But it's really not about the clothes she wears, how attractive she is, what her "character" is like or what time your wristwatch reads. It never is. It has nothing to do with attraction. It's violence, plain and simple. So why does it not occur to you to talk sense into the heads of the men you know? How about addressing fucked up mindsets, the root cause? Tell your son what I'm saying and ignore that friend who thinks you're making too big a deal of this shit. This is a big deal.

I've shared this before. Once more won't hurt.

Please don't pull a Mulayam Singh Yadav on the world around you. He promised government jobs for rape victims in his state. You see, rapes will continue in this state, we can't possibly address that. But I will give you a job to make up for the violation of your self. Come forth and abuse the provision, dear voters. Come help me ride my bicycle.


I used to scoff at women who'd insist on ladies compartments in trains at all times. Now I dwell on what made them insist.

He Only Touched Her Na

Let's say we're making a movie, you and I. We need a story. A screenplay. A character.

A girl, almost a woman. Age: 20; the number suits the tag. In keeping with the law that Facebook confirms for us each day – even a boring female lead is more likely to hold the audience's attention than the average male lead could ever hope to.

So what have we here? A young woman, urban, easy on the eyes. A clean heart. Nowhere near perfect. Not exactly an outlandish creature. Too simple, we need to spice it up. Let's say she gets molested.

How shall we shoot it? A desolate alley, a flickering streetlight? She walks by a dark corner, shivering slightly, wearing her slinky off shoulder dress and her best perfume. A hand creeps out of the midnight shadow. A gagged mouth, flailing arms. She falls to the ground.. No no no, that's too cliched. Let's change it all.

6 pm, an open road. A bright summer evening, a pleasant breeze. The school is shut today, it's a bank holiday. Another festival when no one knows what they're supposed to be doing, but okay. It's a holiday. She's about to leave from home, she has an errand to run. She walks to the front door then returns to her room. Swaps her shorts for a pair of jeans. Why give the grandfather something to agonise over? An oversized shirt and modest jeans. Modesty modesty. She's good to go.

15 minutes. She's on her way back. Another 30 steps on that footpath and she'll be home. She approaches the corner, walking between wall and vehicle.

He moves in right at the blind turn. Rough hands on her front. Legs locked. A disgusting sense of violation. In hindsight, a peculiar lack of smell. She instinctively twists her elbow, jabs him in the chest. It's over before a count of three. A quick, violent fondle and he's running. She follows on his heels, faster than she's run in some time now.

The chase lasts longer than the action he got. It always does. Around three long blocks, twice as many turns and loops. Two pairs of shoes slap against the road. A constant stream of abuses. Men standing ahead stare at her; what makes her chase this guy? "Pakdo usko!" From behind her, "Arre but what happen medam?" He races ahead, clear about where he's going. She follows, clear only about why she's running.

Random thoughts flood her mind. Wrong day to have put on these worn out slippers. A big middle finger to anyone who later dares to say women ask for it. Abuses that rarely get considered are being yelled, men on the street continue to stare at her funny. The guy's athletic, fast, maybe 18. A striped blue and white shirt, smart dark jeans. He could well have been her junior in school. She wonders how she can think of anything just then. She wishes she'd managed to loop her arm around his neck. Kneed him hard. The skin above her left breast stings. Crazy montage. That bastard. Speed up.

She loses him at a sharp turn. It's a maze of bylanes, each as empty as another. She was a fool for asking people around there if they'd spotted someone like him. "Arre madam problem kya hai?" "Chutiye ko chamaat marna hai." Silence. Failure.

She's home now. Sweaty. Furious. Loathsome. Breathing hard. Itching to lash out. To do some damage, maybe rip off his balls. How could she? It hardly matters. She's mad at herself for not matching his long strides. For wanting company but not knowing what to say. Still so furious her eyes sting. She’s bruised and bleeding and it wasn’t her fault. She was violated, just because he could. Not because of how she was dressed. How dare people say this is part and parcel of being a woman?

It's still bright outside.

Russia Is Reading

Is "gobble" a cuss word in Russian? Or "dook" the name of some village?

Zdravstvuj, is that you?

Every single post over the years has been read by this Russian reader! Such peculiar things you can find out... I was psyched. I really was.

I say I was because it was pointed out that those pageviews could just be from some faceless bot crawling the web. The horror. The lackofromanceandmystery! So yeah, while there's a good chance I might be wrong, I'm just going to tell myself I have a loyal reader lurking around. It's a happy thought.

PS - I like how Chrome is on top, even if I was partial to Opera at one time. And Linux users read me, yay! 

PPS - Yeah, less than 200 views a month. No, I don't exactly promote this blog. You want to?

Those Folks Over At Aadhar

College (or more correctly, BMM) gives you a lot of funny things to do. When you're feeling smart, you turn those funny things into interesting things.


In case of us Journo students, a magazine had to be put together, the focus of the assignment being the design and layout. The University circular about vivas for the same actually includes evaluating criteria like Headlines style, Type and Colour. Obvious stuff, but I still stare at it every time I look at that circular, which is often. Yep, amongst other funny things, college leaves you with so much spare time that you keep reading circulars. Or maybe that's just me.


My magazine is broadly based on innovation. So much scope! E-commerce and online entrepreneurship one in one issue,  crowdsourcing and hatke marketing gimmicks in the next, maybe a special issue on facilities customised for senior citizens or teens - be it related to health, banking, side incomes or alternate tourism. Damn I wanna do this!


Since content for the magazine did not have to be written by us (something I found weird, writing is what we do na!) articles were lifted (with all due credit and courtesy) from tech sites, online magazines and in some cases, put together with the help of About Us and FAQ sections. The Caravan carried an interesting article on the nava job profile of workers at Aadhaar enrolment centres across the country. 

You are reading Page 30, !nnovate, October 2011.

What brought this up? Ma famille was to go submit the forms for the UID registration today. You know, finally get the ball rolling to have our own Aadhaar numbers - not cards. Yeah. The lady in charge there met with an accident on her way to work. The centre will remain closed for the next two days. Also, my father suggests I "chill out".

We're On The Edge

Visitors to this city are almost always in awe of its pace. Its liveliness. Its sheer force of existence. They think this city is something special; I think this city is on the edge.

Much has been said about the overworked transport system. The inevitable delays, the fashionably late Indian Standard Time. About the fighting spirit this city breathes into its people, about the safety its women enjoy.

Some Indians think this city is a lesson in assertion. Spend a few years in big bad Bombay and you will learn to stand on your own two feet. I beg to differ. Spend a while in Bombay and you will learn how to fight someone who tries to stamp your two little feet. If anything, this city is a lesson in survival. Irritable, defensive survival that reeks of sweat and aches with hunger. Take it all away and we won't be us anymore.

We trudge on, for hey, we're lucky to be surviving in Bombay! We overlook the fact that Bombay is the hallowed place we make it out to be because of its faceless crowds and their desperate attempts to fulfil a day's work, not inspite of them.

It is not that Bombay works much more than is normal - Bombay just sees a lot of other stuff that overpowers work. Work happens mechanically, on the side. We're preoccupied; we're pissed. We don't understand that deftly juggling travel alternatives during a strike isn't streetsmart, it's silent acceptance. But you can't blame us for overlooking such stuff. These oversights allow you to romanticise our city. We're just too busy protecting our toes from the crowd.

Our lives have the same issues as yours. The same concerns, the same drama. We just dwell on them differently, secretly but in the midst of the screaming match that is a regular officegoer's travel companion.
It's all too vague for you, isn't it? You must be convinced I'm exaggerating. Others from my city would agree with you. You see, we fret and fume within our minds but we really don't notice these things anymore. We've imbibed the idea of maddening crowds. It's alright for our fancy AC buses to carry 80, not 40. It's okay to spend two hours at that posh counter for some inane work.

We aren't brave. We aren't overachievers. We aren't brokers of dreams and we aren't champions of coexistence. We're just oblivious blocks of flexible minds, regular people caught in a crowd.

Us Of The Bad Haircuts

My life has been a series of eventful haircuts. Bad haircuts. What has stayed constant, however, is the two-clause format of comments they attract. “Your hair is really nice ya, you should have done this and this and this to it instead.”

The saga began when I was in kindergarten; it continues today and shows no sign of ending. Mind you, that is the hallmark of the best tragedies that have ever been written. They are eternal.

Like all things eternal, eventful haircuts deserve to be scrutinised. Why must some of us always look like we’re sketches in the making? What gives people the right to be paid for screwing up somebody’s hair? Why do other people always have perfect hair? Am I a bad person? Is someone out to get me? Who even decides this shit?

Who stole my mojo? >.<

One way of foreseeing a bad hairstyle is to consider how you feel about it right before the scissors get busy. Even the vaguest variant of “Oh let’s be done with it already! It’s only hair, it’ll grow back” is a warning sign. Walk out that door.

Avoid telling your stylist that you want something low-maintenance, “just a simple wash and dry style” is worse. He will treat you like a project. Like a teetotaller at a bar. You will be that no-gooder he must bring over to the world of serums and straighteners.

That said, announcing “I want a change!” is the red flag. Just get up, make scary eyes and run. It’s okay to subconsciously want a change; chances are you’ll get it. But say it out loud and you activate those repressed creative juices in the guy wielding the scissors. He will make you his muse but will forget that you aren’t a mannequin. You will resemble a shorn sheep and let me tell you, no sheep pays to be sheared.  Reflective surfaces will crop up in corners you least expect them to. Strangers will be sickly sweet to you, the probable victim of a tornado. Acquaintances will go “What happened to you!??” and beyond a point, making up improbable funny stories will feel like a chore. Your sister will reassure you, “You still look good in the dark!” and you will spend ages consoling every person who ever played with your hair. I have no enemies I know of, but I’m guessing they won’t be very nice either. So as much as you may be sick of how your hair almost always looks the same as before, DON’T SAY IT.

Us Of The Bad Haircuts need to get a few things straight. It is not just hair, it will not grow back – that’s the Loch Ness of body myths. All these “hair care” products in the market are proof; they exist because Us Of The Bad Haircuts need them, not because they can actually fix anything. They’re like remedies for a common cold. Placebos.

Trash all that talk about hair that reflects your personality. I have had distinctly different hair at every stage of my life and I have done the same dumb stuff at every stage, hair-personality sync be damned. You gotta cope with it all.

Perhaps there is only that one, lone hairstyle that will ever truly suit the unique snowflake I am. Perhaps someone really is out to get me.

It's Okay To Not Relate

When some random person predicts that you will meet all sorts of people in college, believe. And when your prospective college promises you “immense exposure”, believe more.

After nearly three years of undergrad at a town college dominated by people from not-town, I do believe I have been on the receiving end of adequate exposure. No kidding. Why, day three of college consisted of something like this –

Yeah, I'm over my Blue Suede Shoes...

Okay, not quite like this. Picture the girl about eight years older and two feet taller, wearing the same skirt and a lost expression on her face. Okay so far? 

Now picture the same in the main corridor of a college library dominated by microbiology students normally intent on research... yeah. 

Now tack on a pose, something like this –

There's only so much a girl can cover... the library is the place to look it up!

It was probably the first time I didn’t laugh aloud for fear of interrupting an intense parody shoot. Turned out I might as well have laughed, would’ve contrasted the gaping mouths nicely.

-     -     -

I didn’t catch on to it then, that tendency to stare a little, laugh a little and then get on with my life anyway when faced with things I simply could not relate to. In retrospect, that’s what got me through college with my sanity intact. Sure, sometimes you reflect and take it from there, validating another popular claim – that college will change you. But if you’re lucky, a voice in your mind just tells you that it’s okay not to relate.

It’s okay to not want to hug acquaintances like exiled lovers reunited at long last. Especially when you see those exchanges take place a minute before your university exams begin.

It’s okay to not know the characters of sitcoms and dramas as intimately as you know the smell of your sweat. Both remind you of fresh flowers, both fade away. Pick whichever. Do remember, though, that your sweat is a part of you.

It’s okay to not litter your chats and contact list with hearts and ellipses and exclamation marks. There was a reason Beethoven wrote music fur elise, and not for ellipse. You and I are in on it, let the rest of the world be.

It’s okay to not care to socialise with the 60+6 students studying the same course as you, across years, across colleges. Yes, it would bring you contacts and recognition and potentially a gazillion people who could like your new status, but bringing yourself to things that make you happy is more important.

It’s okay to not talk about every cool thing you do. It really is.

It’s okay to not attend high school reunions if you decide you don’t feel like it. Facebook is still around to tell you who’s doing what, when, where and who.

It’s okay to not have a 1000 people on your friend list should you not care for the above information, because... well, just because.

A lot of things are okay to not do. Not because you’re in a position to pass judgement but simply because they don’t feel right to you. 

That makes it okay to draw up a list of what you don't care for. And lists, my friend, are what make blogs. Aye, it's still okay to not relate ;)

Too Much Scotch!

12:42 Belapur local and cab from VT. Okay?

No, not okay.

Not when the person you said that to doesn’t give a shit about just which train to take.

Not when you have a lot of time to go before you take a final call on which train to take.

And definitely not when you receive a reply that reads –

Exam kal se hai :|

I was always that calm, pulled together person where exams were concerned. Panic about misplaced pens, inadequate cheating supplies, nightmares about not waking up or reaching the centre in time for a big exam – I don’t think any of these ever plagued me. Even when I don’t have enough pens or enough time, I can stay calm. During the run-up to major exams, I cook and clean for the family, I watch movies, I do everything that could possibly make me worthy of a few crisp notes, if not a plaque of honour. But I don’t panic. No, sir. I’m that annoyingly calm exam-taker who actually dares to enter rooms looking pleasant, albeit late – yep, I’m that girl you’ve always wanted to choke.

Even when I have experienced the-feeling-closest-to-panic, it was because I couldn’t randomly picture a certain section of my notes the way I could picture all others - with line indents, punctuation and order of points, to boot. Or because... no, that’s pretty much the only reason. If that makes me a “nerd/scotch/scholty”, so be it. I like having my study material in place. Compiled. Organised. No shame there. It’s what I’ve been going on about for the last month. “I know the content re, but compile karna hai... so much work!”

Different matter that things didn’t quite go as per plan. Oh no, they sure didn’t. Over the past few weeks, I’ve baked and I’ve fried and I’ve popped thaaaat much corn. I’ve spent more time with the boyfriend than I did in the weeks before these – go me! I’ve pigged out and I’ve shopped and I’ve had “sister bonding time” with, well, my sister. I’ve talked until dawn and read the most assorted mix of things in months! I’ve caught up with classmates from junior college and released senti notes into cyberspace. More about the notes in another post. Point is, I’ve been busy.

Mom says these are ways I choose subconsciously to release subconscious stress about work and acads. I think these are ways I try consciously to foster healthy conscious denial about work and acads. But hey, she’s the boss. Though I do believe the notes are all organised up here, in my head. Aye.

But you know what the problem is? I’m still freaking out about having gotten the exam schedule wrong. Not even the order of exams, I got the frickin’ schedule wrong by a whole day! So yeah, I have an extra, unexpected day to study. I also have the worst kind of headache I’ve had in ages. I’m jumpy and dizzy and my head is still spinning. My mouth is dry and my throat is parched and I can’t stand how everyone keeps telling me to go to sleep. Writing this post was supposed to help; it didn't. I am abuzz! This just feels like a bad bad hangover.

PS – I’m not sure I spelt scholty right... it sounds like scall-tea, where scall rhymes with fall, but it’s derived from scholar, hence the schol to begin with. Autocorrect changed schol to school. See, it did that again! Meh. Guess I’m not a scotch after all.

Dude (Looks Like A Lady)

I'd write more often, I confess

There's plenty in this head, whattay mess!

But the thought of you hmming

And the thought of you haawing

Puts me off like a dude in a nightdress.

Your Statistic Is My Santa

An Ex-Army-brat About An Ex-Army-man

Papa served in the Indian Armed Forces. As a post-graduate student of AFMC, Pune and then an officer with the Army for 16 years, he is the reason I was once an Army brat.

My pre-school years were spent in and around the Army, predominantly in Ambala Cantt. I’m talking 1991 and thereon, when “pre-school” simply meant before school, not a bastardised version of Kindergarten. I was brought up amidst families of other servicemen, dignified Army mess workers and staff at cantonment hospitals, where Papa served as Gynaecologist.

In case you’re wondering what a Gynaec was doing in the Army – women serve in the Forces too. Male officers have families and wives who bear children. Doctors serve as part of the “fighting units” too, for a few compulsory years and also as backup forces. That’s what took Papa to Siachen and to the border by the Indus river. The former is how he knows everything about frostbitten, amputated limbs. The latter is how he has zoomed in photographs of Pakistan’s armymen holding rifles and looking out at the Indian camp from across the border.

As an Army brat, I’ve had my share of “top secret” bike rides from uniformed officers when Papa was busy elsewhere. I’ve had military hospitals’ nurses fawn over the awkward fountain ponytail he’d tie atop my head every morning when it was just the two of us.

I’ve been included in jokes about a rotund officer who was allegedly always forced to rest his huge belly on tabletops and I’ve had a very friendly Brigadier take me on a tour of defunct canons and rifles arranged in the cantonment garden.

I’ve been entertained by “Santa Claus” on the phone for precisely 15 minutes every night for a week I spent with Papa at the Alwar cantt; I’d share my Christmas wishlist with Santa and justify my requests with “But I’m shining Papa’s medals, buttons and buckles with Brasso, Santa!” We once discussed what was wrong with the porridge Papa cooked for me at breakfast and I never could tell how my bowl of porridge suddenly tasted better the next morning. I was 11 when I discovered my gift-bearing Santa lived down the corridor and was usually called Captain by others and “scary uncle” by me. You cannot begin to imagine how betrayed I felt.

This may evoke a smile for the child that I was and the memories I cherish. This may have you believe I’m boasting about the perks of being an army brat, particularly one pampered by a whole bunch of dapper Army personnel. This may have you believe that Army-folk and their work is overrated. “They even have the time to play with random officers’ kids at work, beat that!”

But I’ll tell you one thing – this is why my heart breaks every time I read of casualties in the Indian Army. I've had my internal debates about patriotism and nationalism and all of that, but amongst those casualties could be people I have known, people who have given me some of my best memories. Perhaps this is why I cry like a baby when Border plays on television twice a year and this is why I’d wake up with nightmares as an 8 year old who kept hearing about an ugly Kargil War in the news.

As I write today, it amazes me that I’ve never brought this up before. Perhaps that’s because I no longer see him as Lt. Col. Dr. Rakesh Kumar Sharma. Somewhere, I no longer see him as Papa. Today, he’s Lt. Col. Dr. Rakesh Kumar Sharma (Retd.), a practising Professor. Today, he’s Dad. And that is my loss as much as his. 

Say Na Something

You'll find that when everyone is caught up in modaks and mubaraks, certain things are best left unsaid. For instance, comments on the chaos and contradictions in their expression of faith. Or pointing out to a group of kattar Ganpati Yuvak Mandal volunteers that a Muslim festival is far more pleasant and orderly than theirs. Or announcing that the only thing all these festivals mean to you is food.

Not devotion, not fancy purchases and get-togethers and definitely not inner peace and calm. Just huge servings of food that takes as long to prepare as it does to digest. Sometimes with a side dish of childhood nostalgia, as a concession.

Now don't feel sorry because I sound like a hog. Don't go on a guilt trip because you've already decided I'm a hog. Aside from my indifference to hedges, I am quite the hog. So don't think twice, it's alright.

Stranded.

There are times I stand convinced that the very concept of Time is flawed. Not often thought through.

It is, after all, only a warped output of the control freak mankind has been through the ages and continues to be. It is an expression of the need to measure our moments, which in turn measures our actions. This need to define time and to appropriate thereon is inherently accepted, never questioned. Because hey, Time knows what it’s doing. It can judge, it can change, it can reveal, it can heal.

But I’ll tell you what, time cannot heal. You say it to a child with a bruised shin and you say it to a grieving orphan. You say it without really knowing what you’re promising. You say it despite having had the same said to you! I use the word “despite” because deep down you know time had nothing to do with your recovery, be it from a scraped knee or a personal loss.

You just started to think differently about that loss. That can be done at any stage, on day one, day hundred or never. That’s how some people care two hoots about scraped knees and distant deaths. Not because Time, in all its wise benevolence, decided to give them Tatkal treatment and heal them sooner.

It’s been a while, some people remind me. “Surely, you must be over it by now?” Allow me to ask what it means to “get over” something or someone. Another common favourite is “So you haven’t come to terms with it yet?” Tell me once again, what does “coming to terms” involve?

Does it mean you don’t think of it anymore? That it isn’t the only thing on your mind when you take a break from slaving away, wasting away, all in an effort to distract your mind? That when you do think of it, you only remember the good parts?

Does it mean the issue doesn’t “affect” you anymore? That you don’t break down when you think of it? That if you had to go through it again, you’d come out unscarred? Or that you now have the courage in you to go through something similar?

If your answer to all of these questions is Yes, my response to them would have to be in the negative.

Does it mean you haven’t accepted what happened?

Again, I don’t understand what “acceptance” people speak of. Do I realize and understand that the man I loved most is dead, gone forever? Yes. Do I not understand that his body went from decaying flesh to ashes in a matter of hours, all before my eyes? I do understand. Do I expect him to signal me in any way? No. Do I expect Nana to walk in the door with that impish grin on his face, telling me this was all a prank? No.

What am I supposed to accept here? I understand the finality. I understand the implications. I understand the responsibility. I don’t understand what you’re asking me. And I don’t think I will ever understand what you’re asking of me. Because you don’t understand it either.

Surrounded by all this talk, it can only be called the height of irony that the one physical object that ties me to him keeps time. It took me months to gather the courage to ask Nani if I could have it. It’s taking me weeks to wear it without reminiscing or breaking down. And like all that’s precious, it comes with a deeper story.

It was purchased shortly before Mom’s wedding. It was the first delivery Bombays’s virgin Titan store made. It was the watch Nana wore on his wrist for as long as I remember. So many memories, so many associations…  all rushing in, all getting entangled.

It’s a 22 year old story in a language I can’t begin to decode. And a strand of coarse black hair trapped within its links.

Year 10 and 40! And Day 1.

So The Flintstones are almost as old as my father. Ow. Killer start.

Bright side - they completed 50 years of being aired yesterday which means those of you whose parents and grandparents were cool enough to have a gay ol' time with The Flintstones in addition to being TV-ownings seths before obnoxious little(?) you came in have no business complaining about communication gaps. Same stuff, ha! Bright side for people who think you're still obnoxious, of course.

Wait, not many would fit in there. In the cool+seth category, not obnoxious-considerers. Okay, chuck. The Google Photus ref still makes me happy. 


And don't be surprised to see odes and obituaries someplace on the Internet, The Flintstones were the 46th most popular search topic on Google at 5 in the bloody morning yesterday. Time zones are evil, yessir. Obituaries for the writer's childhood and "days of believing in  make believe" *eye roll*, not for Fred and Wilma.


I miss The Addams Family. Won't deny they creeped me out at the beginning. If only they were the Addamses with a single D. Addams makes them sound like a very South Indian concotion. Why South Indian? I can totally picture Rita --a house help (Maid servant? Naah.. didi? Yep!) at our place when I was around 10, she was from Belgaum-- say it like that. Add-dums. But then she also insisted "Okay" was a Kannada word because everyone in her village said it all the time. The arguments we used to have... I digress. Addamses? Addams? Dimsums. 

Oh and those Sunday all Hannah-Barbara cartoons inclusive races they used to hold every uh, Sunday. Anyone?



In other news, Pranav's blog led me to this, which in turn led me to vv . Er, that's a down-two-paragraphs arrow. Never mind. 

Something tells me I'll be linking there and borrowing plenty. =)

Which is why we're patrons of The Flintstones and not Sleeping Beauty. Wisdom again.

You Are NOT Random!

That spark in your eye that charms them all. That natural laugh, however imperfect it may be. That genuine grin, infectious regardless of whether or not your face stretches like Jim Carey’s and whether or not you have funny teeth or even no teeth at all. That knack of saying something mildly offensive but getting away with it either because the irony of it all floored even the target or because people just didn’t get what you said. That wild impulse to do something forbidden or unusual, to go out there and shock your audience. 

You have all these things and more, but describe yourself as “random” and you instantly become less interesting to me than the toothpick stuck between your teeth. No, I do not have a thing for toothpicks or for teeth.

Wisdom.

 Am I just trying to revive English as I love it? Am I a wicked witch for going all Victorian and Book Antiqua on unsuspecting minds? Or, disturbing as it is, am I randomly ranting about things that bother me?

My Mother Is On Facebook

Silence. The deafening variety.

She's on Facebook, she's on my list of friends, she's everywhere!

Now, don't get me wrong. I love my mother to bits and would live my life for her. I have this theory that living your life for someone/something must be infinitely tougher than giving it up for that particular whoever/whatever, but that's for another time, another post.

She didn't track me down, sneak up on me, put on a "yo, imma hot dude, add me yu sexii chica!" disguise (that would never –won’t ever- work, don't get funny ideas anyone...) and then do an India TV "parda faash!" gig at dinner one night. Au contraire, I'm the one who got her off VSNL and introduced her to Gmail and Facebook and my humble blog - I'm your modern-day saintly proponent of clicks and codes, yessir.

I'm glad she's open minded and eager to learn the ropes on her and that it’s giving her a chance to reconnect with people from years past. I'm proud of her, I truly am. I think she's way cool.

But picture this – (Fictional situations all so rest easy, Ma; nevertheless, CPR on hold guys!) – only for the sake of point making, ye get? So, for whatever imbecilic and influenced reason, you upload on Facebook some snaps of you and a bunch of friends downing criss-cross drinks or trying out some random grassy thing or in general playing the stupid/dangerous/perverted fool. Surprise surprise, your mom gains access to them! Oh and in case it hasn't crossed your mind yet, you're underage. HOW WILL YOU FEEL? I dunno know how you'll feel but boss, those pics will self destruct. Poof! And if that doesn't happen in time, haha, someone's gonna get hurt real bad tonight...

Milder version of the same - you're flirting with whoever (again on a public forum, because you’re an imbecile or influenced, remember?) and I'm talking serious flirting. The responses make you happy in the heart and mushy in the mind. And out of nowhere, Momma dear puts in an appearance. Potential poof situation. Not ideal, see? That's what I'm getting at. Virtual privacy ka popat.

She drops in on conversations I have with friends and tells us to mind our four letter words. She comments on pictures I'm tagged in and cans my friends when she likes. I definitely think I'm part of why she's still on Facebook. 

Psst.. she's definitely better than this -

Then again, this works both ways. Anytime she decides to crib about me, bitch or rant, I get those flashy red notifications. She decides to blog-rant, I can read. Random conversations with friends, I get updates, the inside scoop. 

We could go in for a cordial understanding that the other's profile is not to be looked at, updates to be ignored, but who am I kidding? And it'd get too boring, too soon. Guess we'll let things remain.

I'll just have to remember to flirt in private…

Us, Them & The Rest

The simple, sadahran group. Everyone's capable of being bitchy, that's only human, so we're not talking dudh ke dhule, no way. Not airheads either. Not even simple when I speak of how they dress. They have their share of fashionistas walking in looking like Africa, Iceland and China on different days of the week. Something I find difficult to relate to, but okay.

And the manifestation of the suburban's definition of "a typical bunch of townies", which again makes things difficult for me to comprehend. They just happen to live elsewhere. Most of them don't even hail from "town"! Someone hoping to get rid of this discussion would probably say they belong to a different "culture". That must be it. I dunno.

-

A class of 60. Rough segregation in the first 3 weeks. Come midterm, most can be found sticking to their "groups" like glue, tailing each other to the canteen, the multiplex and the loo. More about the loo groups in another post :| New entrants trickle in, take the total to 65. The modus operandi remains the same, only smoother and quicker.

So what happens when you are, for all intents and purposes, through with the first semester at a new college? By which time every kid has handed in a multitude of projects, eaten in all the cafes and eateries around, collectively bitched about certain someones. Well, by then, everyone knows exactly who they're gonna sit with, eat with, work with, hang out with, and not to forget, bitch with. Fair enough perhaps, maybe even universal, but it’s something that bothers me.

I'm not a proponent of the we-are-one-class-and-we-move-together philosophy. That's meant for idealists. And loo groups. It's not even like I'm left without people to be with and hence resent the grouping and fragmentation. And yet the differences and curiosity regarding each other fascinate me and the demarcation annoys me. 

It's all the small things. When a birthday is being celebrated, one group goes all out as they party, head down the wine and fine dine route. They're "craaaazy". The other group chooses to keep it simple (there's that word again!) but somehow seem to have just as much fun, if not more. They haunt Chowpatty and its chatais for a good few hours; go ga ga over the 'mini giant wheel' and Columbus' boat; down cheesy pizzas and neon blue butterscotch golas and share bottles of soap bubbles with kids whose first reaction to new faces is to stick out a grubby palm and beg.

I ain't out to judge. Not my place to. I have friends from both “groups” and I like them the way they are. A year into the course, I have fond memories of times with them all, memories of their kind of fun and talk. And even as I lean heavily to one side, I guess I'll continue to watch, find it amusing and document. Works.